


Wild Horses- A Valentine's Day Fic

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gore, M/M, Stolen Moments, Valentine's Day, demon horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: Wild demonic horses can't drag Stiles away from getting his moment with Derek.





	Wild Horses- A Valentine's Day Fic

 

 

Their first kiss tastes like orange juice and blood. 

 

And that’s fine. Stiles thinks it’s fine. 

 

It’s not all shooting stars and fireworks, but rather sinking into a warm bed after a long day. It’s comfort and steady-as-a-rock. Tethering. It’s exactly what he _needs_. 

 

Derek is a wall of warmth against him, one hand pressed into his back, the other holding a glass half full. They kiss twice, once just a press of lips, then deeper. Slower. Stiles can’t tell of the buzz reverberating off his bones is from all the pain drains or from the kiss, and it doesn’t really matter. 

 

It doesn’t last forever, eventually they separate and lean back into the couch. He can’t stop the groan of pain that escapes him, and welcomes the touch of Derek’s hand against his leg as it starts to draw away some of the pain again. 

 

Stiles takes a swig of orange juice, ignoring the cold burn of it as it goes down his throat, and raises his cup in the air with his good hand. His better hand.

 

“Happy fucking Valentine’s Day, Derek.” 

 

Derek nods, a sardonic smile forming on his lips, and raises his glass to clunk it against the side. 

 

“Happy fucking Valentine’s Day, Stiles.” 

 

 

______________ 

 

**12 hours previous:**

 

If he had to choose, he’d do it all over again. 

 

That’s what he tells himself as he takes a deep breath, and grabs for the medallion a third time. It burns his hands just like the previous two times, but now—oh, now Stiles isn’t letting go. The third time’s the charm. That, and he’s running out of time. 

 

“Stiles!” 

 

Stiles looks away from the fascinatingly painful searing of his own flesh to find Scott and Derek still struggling with the demon-horse-looking monster thing. It’s legs are too long, too thin to hold up it’s rotting mass. It’s eyes seem to be burning, and whatever is dribbling out of its mouth apparently melts through flesh. Unfortunately, whatever it is, it appears to be immune to werewolf claws, bullets, and fiery katanas. The only thing left to try is the medallion. The weird, gold medallion with a little frowning sun on it that Deaton left them before he vanished somewhere in Tibet for a month. He’d said that they should use it if things got dire—but only then. And only Stiles. It made him feel a little special at the time. 

 

Stiles is starting to feel less special now, and more singled out. 

 

“I’ve got it!” He calls out, ignoring the way his voice cracks with pain. His hands feel like they’re melting, he’s allowed. “Get that creep closer!” 

 

“How?!” Scott yelps, jumping backwards as the thing takes a swing at him with its head. 

 

“Herd it!” 

 

“I can’t hurt it!” 

 

Stiles chokes out a whimpering laugh, ducks his head, and screams, “ _Herd_ ittowards me!” 

 

Scott doesn’t seem to get it, but Derek starts darting in and out again, baiting the thing to come after him. Stiles is a little proud to see the guy using tactics for once, instead of blundering in head first. He’s been doing so much better lately, actually listening to Stiles’ plans instead of shutting them down immediately. They’ve reached a sort of understanding, and it’s been good. Better. Not as sucky. 

 

“Are you ready, Stiles?” Derek calls out, glancing over his shoulder as he skips backwards out of the creature’s reach. Hideously sharp claw-hoof things come way too close to Derek’s throat for comfort. The creature brays at them, flecks of blood and god-knows-what splattering the ground in front of them. Stiles promptly shoves the medallion into the creature’s open mouth. 

 

For a split second, everything is fine. 

 

Stiles screams when the teeth sink into the flesh of his arm, and lets go of the medallion somewhere in the creature’s throat area. The burning stops, but the pain doesn’t. 

 

“Get it off him!” Derek snarls, digging his claws into the horse’s rotting jaws and pulling as hard as he can.

 

Stiles takes a shuddering breath, and screams a little more. He’s pretty sure his arm is about to come off and Derek isn’t helping. 

 

“Jesus—Stiles, stop moving!” Derek snaps, his face too close, voice too loud. 

 

They’re both shoved into the same space, Stiles arm halfway down the horse’s throat, Derek’s claws prying its mouth open as best he can. There’s blood everywhere. Stiles might throw up, or pass out. Maybe both. He can’t think. There’s too much—it hurts. 

 

It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts. 

 

“I know it hurts,” Derek pants next to his face. “But you have to stop squirming. You’re gonna lose your arm if you keep it up.” 

 

Stiles whimpers and tries to stop jerking around, but he isn’t even sure his body knows what it’s doing at this point. It’s just too much pain, and the thing is staring at them with its creepy melted eyes, unaffected. Uncaring. Dead. 

 

“D-Derek... I think—I think it worked,” he sputters, waiting for the thing to move. Whatever the medallion did, though, seems to have frozen it where it stands. 

 

Derek grunts as he pushes harder, “Great. Now how do we get it to release you?” 

 

Stiles doesn’t know. He’s starting to go numb now, so that’s nice. Much better than screaming pain. Who needs hands, anyway? And an arm? 

 

Wait, shit. It’s his right arm. He does stuff with that arm. He _needs_ that arm. 

 

Derek grunts again, giving the creature’s jaw another shove. This time, Stiles feels the sharp, un-horse-like teeth slide free of his flesh. Wheezing, Stiles stumbles backwards and falls to his knees. Scott’s there immediately, drawing the pain away and talking. He’s talking about something. 

 

Stiles can’t focus. Can’t feel his arm. 

 

“S’gone?” he asks blearily. 

 

“No... just, uh, not in good shape.” 

 

Stiles is pretty sure that’s code for ‘hanging on by a thread,’ but he’s too busy trying not to pass out to care. 

 

“Get him to the car!” Derek yells, suddenly right there again. No, wait, now he’s picking him up in his arms like a princess. 

 

“It’s my _arm_ , Derek,” Stiles grumbles. “My legs are fine.” 

 

“You’re bleeding out.” 

 

Stiles narrows his eyes at the fuzzy jawline right in front of him. “That’s a thing?” 

 

“Yes, Stiles, it’s a thing that you’re doing.” 

 

“Sounds fake, but okay.” 

 

Derek mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and turns around to yell at Scott to do something. Wherever Scott is. 

 

Stiles is starting to loose track of his friends here. 

 

“Your beard is getting long. Longer,” he comments, watching Derek turn back around and glance down at him as he jogs towards the cars. 

 

It’s weird, but Stiles is noticing all sorts of things about Derek. Not for the first time, no, but he can’t seem to focus on anything else. Like his eyes when he checks on him a third time, wide, worried. Impossible colors. What even are Derek’s eyes? Stiles wants to eat them. 

 

“Okay, now I’m worried,” Derek replies, holding Stiles a little closer to his chest. They’ve reached his car, and Scott—Scott’s back! 

 

“Oh buddy, you’re alive,” Stiles murmurs happily, waving weakly at him with his less-dead hand. 

 

“He’s fading,” Derek says to Scott’s confused look. 

 

“I’m right here.” 

 

“You’re not even aware of what you’re saying,” Derek says as he crouches down and attempts to slide Stiles into the passenger seat. The movement jostles his arm, making him cry out in pain. 

 

“Shit,” Derek hisses, instantly drawing away as much pain as he can. 

 

“S’okay,” Stiles replies, his head lolling to the side. He grins at Derek. Derek is so cute when his eyebrows are all furrowed like that. He looks like a constipated ferret. 

 

Stiles giggles. And, shit. 

 

“Oh god, you’re right,” he groans, closing his eyes. “I’m fucked up.” 

 

“Some of that might be from the pain drain.” 

 

“How much of it? How much blood am I loosing?” Stiles opens his eyes and tries to look. His arm is a mess of blood, and—no. Nope. He can’t look. It’s like—it’s—the hanging by a thread thing was a little too accurate. 

 

“Don’t look,” Derek snaps, gently turning his head away. “Scott, strap him in. I’m driving him to Deaton’s.” 

 

“I don’t know if he’s even back yet,” Scott replies shrilly. 

 

Derek’s vanished from Stiles’ line of sight, making him frown. Now it’s just Scott. Scott is nice and all, but he’s not Derek. Derek has ferret brows. 

 

“I’m sorry I don’t have ferret brows,” Scott says, cracking a weak smile as he slips the belt around Stiles’ waist and clips it in. 

 

Derek reappears on Stiles’ other side, slipping into the driver’s seat and starting up the car. 

Scott asks, “What are you going to do if he isn’t there?” 

 

“Deaton has things we can use.” 

 

“Things we can use without him?” 

 

“Possibly.” 

 

Stiles squints at Derek, but he’s starting to turn into a blobby mass. In fact, everything is getting blurry. 

 

“Wuzzatmen?” he asks, before passing out. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**24 hours previous:**  

 

“I told you, it’s not an actual horse” 

 

“All they said was ‘horse-like.’ Therefore, I’m looking into horses.” 

 

“Horses don’t rip people in half.” 

 

Stiles spins in his chair and raises an eyebrow at Derek. “Man, have you ever _met_ a horse? A regular old horse? Those things _so_ could rip a man in half.” 

 

“Stiles...” 

 

Stiles throws his hands up in the air and turns back around. “Alright! Alright. Fine. Monster horses. I’m looking into _monster_ horses.” 

 

After a moment of typing, Stiles hears, “It wasn’t a kelpie.” 

 

Stiles pauses and looks over his shoulder to find Derek leaning up against the back of his chair. He’s got Derek’s perfectly scruffed jawline at eye level, and those cheekbones just...

 

“Stiles, focus.” 

 

Stiles clears his throat and turns back to the screen. “Focusing. Focused. So, not a kelpie. And how do we know that?” 

 

“No water.” 

 

“Riiight. So, still a possibility, just highly unlikely.” 

 

“We don’t have time for possibilities,” Derek grumbles, shoving Stiles’ hands out of the way and leaning in to take over. He clicks quickly through the articles, eyes scanning each description quickly before moving on to the next. Stiles, meanwhile, is having trouble focusing on horses and not the way his shoulder is pressed up into Derek’s abs. 

 

It’s not his fault. He can’t focus on just one thing on a good day, never mind the day after they find a body in the woods after a lovey-dovey couple reported their picnic interrupted by a horse ripping a guy in half. Never mind a day where Derek fricken Hale is leaning into his personal space like it’s nothing—and it hasn’t been anything, not for a while. Derek’s been a lot more tactile with him lately, and less shovy-into-doorsy. Just the other day he squeezed Stiles’ shoulder and actually said ‘goodnight’. That’s progress. Progress into what, Stiles doesn’t know, but it sure is _something_. 

 

“—hooves instead of claws?” 

 

Stiles turns and blinks stupidly at the screen. “What?” 

 

“Are you even paying attention?” Derek snaps, leaning away and crossing his arms over his chest. “This is important, Stiles. People are dying.” 

 

Stiles knows his guilt is probably pretty potent to the werewolf in the room, and tries not to squirm. 

 

“Right, no, I know.” He swallows and quickly clears his throat again. “The woman said she heard it coming, which, I mean, kind of implies that it has hooves of some sort. But it also used them to rip the guy apart, so, like, sharp hooves? I don’t know, is that a thing?” 

 

“Apparently so.” 

 

“But not a thing we can name, I’m guessing.” 

 

Derek shrugs a little. “I haven’t seen anything listed that matches their description.” 

 

“Sooo...” Stiles taps a finger against his lips. “We’re flying blind, here.” 

 

Derek nods, and turns away to start to pace. Stiles tracks him with his eyes, but his mind is elsewhere. 

 

They aren’t prepared for this sort of thing, they never are. They usually end up going in with what little information he can gather, and hoping for the best. This usually means bringing everything they have to the table and hoping one of the things actually works. 

 

“We’ll call everyone in,” he announces. “Kira, Chris, Deaton’s magical back-up medallion, maybe even Issac, if we’re feeling desperate.”

 

Derek’s head snaps around. “No.” 

 

“What? No Chris?” Stiles sighs. “Look, I know. I get it. But he’s got the arsenal to—“

 

“No medallion.” 

 

“Why not?” Stiles asks, plucking at the thick leather cord around his throat. He’s been wearing the medallion there since Deaton gave it to him. It’s the safest place he could think of, considering how often he ends up running through the woods in the dead of night.

 

“We don’t know what it does,” Derek replies tersely. 

 

“Which is exactly why we should bring it! Who knows, it could be exactly what we need.” 

 

Derek takes a step closer, his eyes flashing red. “No, Stiles.” 

 

Stiles stands up, hands waving, and yells, “You literally have no reason not to try it!” 

 

“I have plenty of reasons.” 

 

“Name one!” 

 

“It could... it...” Derek falters, and looks away. “It might not work at all.” 

 

Stiles lets his hands fall to his side, and frowns at him. That... doesn’t make any sense. They’ve tried things that might not work plenty of times. Hell, it’s basically their _thing_. It’s _Derek’s_ thing. 

 

“Okay, you’re bullshitting me right now and I can’t figure out why,” Stiles says, taking a step closer. Derek tenses, But doesn’t move away. “Derek, what’s the real reason you don’t want to use it?” 

 

“We don’t know what it does.”

 

“That’s never stopped us be—“

 

“To you,” Derek continues, finally meeting his eye again. “We don’t know what it will do to you.” 

 

Stiles sucks in a breath, and nope, he can’t think of a single thing to say that doesn’t sound dismissive or downright rude. Because that—that actually sounds like Derek capital ‘C’ Cares, and Stiles wants that to be true. _Needs_ it, like, a lot. 

 

“I’ll... I’ll be fine,” he stammers, “Probably.” 

 

“Probably isn’t good enough,” Derek argues, his eyes growing more intense. 

 

Stiles feels his world shrinking down, and it’s just them, face to face, super close. Stiles can actually feel Derek’s breath on his skin and holy shit, this is a moment. He’s heard of these. 

 

“Derek...” 

 

Stiles phone buzzes on the desk, and their bubble shatters.

 

Derek turns away as Stiles scrambles to grab his phone and answer it. 

 

“Hi Scotty,” he squeaks, hitting his chest to try to get air in his lungs again. “What’s up?” 

 

“There’s been another sighting!” Scott yells into the phone. “Kira and I are tracking it now. Get out here!” 

 

“Where are you? You’re already together?” 

 

“It’s Valentine’s Day, so we were... yeah,” Scott replies, sounding sheepish. “We’re off the main trail in the preserve, now. On the North side. Hurry!” 

 

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, only to hear the beep of the line disconnecting. 

 

“Did you get that?” Stiles asks, shoving his phone into his pocket while darting across the room to grab his backpack. 

 

“I’ll drive us,” Derek replies, before reaching out and dragging Stiles closer. “Don’t use the medallion, do you hear me?” 

 

Stiles stares into his eyes for a long moment, deciding whether or not to lie. Derek’s grip grows stronger. 

 

“I will if I have to, you know I will.” 

 

Derek’s eyes grow soft, and he smiles sadly. “Yeah, I know.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**11 hours and 20 minutes previous:**

 

Derek’s face is the first thing he sees when he wakes back up, and it’s kind of nice. 

 

What’s not nice is the amount of pain running through his body. 

 

“Holy _shit_...” Stiles grits out, arching up off the metal table. He hates this room. He hates this fucking veterinary clinic. He hates _everything_. 

 

“Your arm’s going to be ok. But you need to keep as still as possible, the medallion did something to you.” 

 

Stiles falls back against the cold metal and braves looking down at his hands. His bitten arm is bandaged up nice and tightly, not a hint of blood anywhere. But his hands—they’re black and purple. 

 

“Jesus Christ! What the hell is that?” He yelps, shooting Derek a panicked look. 

 

“I don’t know,” Derek replies, squeezing Stiles’ leg where he’s pulling the pain away. He looks pale, and the black lines crawling up his arms are probably not helping. 

 

“Derek... Derek, stop,” Stiles pleads, trying to push his hand away and whimpering when his fingers make contact. 

 

“Don’t. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s bad.” 

 

“Well, you did warn me,” Stiles groans, letting his head fall back against the table with a clang. 

 

“Yes I did,” Derek snarls, “But you had to be an idiot and do it anyway.” 

 

“Hey! I saved our collective asses with that thing!” 

 

“At what cost, Stiles?” 

 

“Who knows?” Stiles snaps, glaring up at him. “Not you, that’s for sure.” 

 

Derek growls low in his throat, and leans in close to Stiles’ face. “Now is not the time to push my buttons, Stiles.”

 

“Is there actually ever a good time for that, or...?” 

 

Derek huffs—it’s almost a laugh—and leans back again. He’s looking less like death is about to swoop down on him now, so Stiles counts that as a win. 

 

“But, really, what are we going to do?” He asks after a moment of silence. “I mean, I can’t really feel my hands anymore, but the rest of my body feels like someone took one of those hole-pokey things they use for planting grass seed and, like, drove over me with it a thousand times.” 

 

“That’s... specific. And graphic.” 

 

“I’m a specifically graphic kind of guy.” 

 

Derek snorts and turns away, reaching across the table to pull over an open book. 

 

“I’ve got something here that might help,” he says, flicking back a page. “The medallion is just a token for the spell that’s placed on it. It could be anything, a rock, a piece of wood, anything. The thing is, it’s gold—old gold, which actually makes the spell more powerful.” 

 

Stiles furrows his brow at the ceiling. 

 

“Okaaay,” He says slowly, “But we don’t know what spell it is?” 

 

“It’s most likely a sacrificial thing,” Derek replies. “Something you trade for, like a life for a life. That sort of thing.”  

 

“Uh, hopefully _not_ that sort of thing.” 

 

Derek’s fingers curl into Stiles’s thigh. “Yes, hopefully it’s not that.” 

 

Stiles turns his head to his side and studies the man sitting beside him. He’s got a smear of blood on his forehead, probably from wiping at sweat while he worked on Stiles’ arm. His coat is gone, leaving him in a long-sleeved henley with the arms rolled up to his elbows. He looks tired as hell, and almost... sad. 

 

“Hey...” Stiles waits until Derek meets his eye to continue, “it’ll be okay. I’ll be fine. I’m hardy.” 

 

Derek doesn’t smile, but some of the sadness seems to shift. 

 

“You better be,” he says firmly. 

 

“What’s the book say about sacrifices? Can I, like, sacrifice something other than my hands?” 

 

Derek looks back at the book, and frowns. Stiles watches his eyes dart over the pages, and tries to ignore the little tug at the back of his mind telling him he needs to say something before it’s too late. 

 

It won’t be too late. There’s no too late. 

 

_But there might be._

 

“Derek...” 

 

Derek jerks his head back to look at him with a sharp frown. “Don’t do that.” 

 

“Ok but—“

 

“ _No._ No goodbyes.” 

 

Stiles snorts. “I wasn’t going to say goodbye, jeez.” 

 

“You were going to say something like a goodbye.” 

 

“No I wasn’t.” 

 

“Stiles.” 

 

“ _Derek_.” 

 

Derek glares at him. 

 

“Fine!” Stiles snaps, waving a hand and immediately regretting it. “Shit. Ow. Never mind. Forget it. I hate everything.” 

 

Derek leans over him, his face a mask of concern. “Please stop moving around.” 

 

“Whatever, you ruined my moment,” Stiles snaps, firmly closing his eyes and tilting his head away. 

 

“Stiles...” 

 

Stiles doesn’t answer. 

 

“Stiles, I don’t want to have a moment because you might be dying. I want... I want it to happen naturally.” 

 

Stiles snaps his eyes open and blinks up at him. “Oh.” 

 

“Yeah, ‘oh,’ you idiot.” 

 

Stiles cracks a grin and wiggles his feet. “You wanna have a not-dying moment with me, huh?” 

 

Derek sighs, leaning heavier against Stiles’ thigh and Stiles really—he really just wants to reach out to touch him. Too bad his hands are kind of painful-gross at the moment. 

 

But... 

 

Stiles reaches out anyway, and slides his fingers along the top of Derek’s hand. And that’s all it takes to break him, apparently, because Derek lifts his hand and gently intertwines their fingers together.  

 

“Is this a moment yet or...?” Stiles trails off, grinning. 

 

Derek just stares at him, and Stiles sees more black lines traveling up his arm. It’s nice, but it’d be nicer if he could actually feel Derek’s hand and maybe give it a squeeze or—

 

“Stiles!” 

 

Stiles jerks his hand out of Derek’s grip as Scott comes bursting in, wincing as some of the pain comes crawling back in almost immediately. 

 

“Are you ok? Is he ok?” Scott asks Derek, shoving into their space and looking him over. 

 

As much as Stiles appreciates that his friend cares, he kind of hates him a little bit right now. They were having a moment. Finally. And, hey, he might be dying. This might be his last change to _have_ a moment with Derek. 

 

“I’m ok... we think,” Stiles answers, shooting Derek a look. 

 

“He might die,” Derek says flatly. 

 

Scott gasps, and looks Stiles over again, finally noticing his hands. Stiles follows his gaze and frowns. The purple has crawled up his arms now, leaving the entirety of his hands black and shriveled looking. 

 

Shit. He might actually die. The stupid medallion might actually kill him. 

 

And he hasn’t told Derek a thing yet. Not a single goddamn thing. 

 

“It’s probably a good thing I’m here, then.” 

 

Stiles looks up to find Deaton striding into the room with a bag in his hands, and lets out a disbelieving laugh. 

 

“You can’t actually be here right now. I’m hallucinating. You’re in Tibet.” 

 

Deaton raises an eyebrow as he approaches, and gently nudges Scott out of the way. Scott moves, but Derek remains by his side, one hand still on Stiles’ thigh. 

 

“I see you used the medallion,” Deaton comments, earning himself a growl from Derek. 

 

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Stiles replies. “I guess.” 

 

“Did it solve your problem?” 

 

“I mean, yeah, it killed the horse thing. But it also did this.” Stiles lifts his hands in case Deaton missed them. 

 

“Hmm... a classic response.” 

 

Derek growls again. 

 

“And easily reversible,” Deaton adds, smiling. 

 

Stiles looks to Derek, meaning to wiggle his eyebrows at him or say something goofy to lighten the mood, but Derek’s face stops him. 

 

He looks torn. 

 

Derek’s expression seems to be warring between relief and distrust as Deaton pulls out several things from his bag and begins grinding something into powder. Like he can’t believe this is real; that there’s no way Stiles could actually survive this. And, man, does Stiles get that. They guy’s lost everything more than a few times. Stiles would stop believing in good things happening, too. 

 

Hell, Stiles is already a pretty solid pessimist on a good day. 

 

Still, Deaton seems to know what he’s doing, and after a few moments of stirring things together, Deaton offers him a small cup of liquid. 

 

“And this will heal everything?” Stiles asks, fumbling with the cup and wrinkling his nose at it. “It smells like a dumpster fire.” 

 

“This should do the trick,” Deaton replies.

 

“I donno...” 

 

Derek grunts, “Drink it.” 

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose more. 

 

“Drink it and we can... have that moment.” 

 

Stiles pretends he doesn’t see Scott’s eyes bug out of his head before he chugs the liquid down in one gulp. 

 

He’s going to get that moment. 


End file.
